


When the swords flash

by Kitsfics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: "And they were tournament opponents", Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, C word and F word, F/M, Fluff, Get rid of the longing we can't let people know we YEARN, I've wanted to write this ever since I saw pics of the ArcherInventive, Medieval Aesthetic, Might be background Arya/Gendry, Missing RenFest so I wrote this fic, No Smut, Renaissance Faires, Renfest, Sword Tourney, Sword and Shield, Sword tourney and afterwards the competitors stay up and party, Warning for language but if you're a ASOIAF fan you should already know about the language, lots of long searching glances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsfics/pseuds/Kitsfics
Summary: When the swords flash, let no idea of love, piety, or even the face of your fathers move you. - Julius CaesarSandor spends his weekends at the Ren Fest in King's Landing, participating in sword tournaments with blunted blades for the entertainment of roaring crowds who like to get a glimpse of the long-past age of heroes. When he meets a beautiful young woman, who is competing in the tourney for the first time, he can't help but develop a little crush. Sandor Clegane is the Hound (on weekends), and has defeated many enemies on the field of (fake) battle, but does he have the courage to talk to a pretty girl?This is a bit of fluff I have been working on in between (*shirking*) writing some of my other, longer fics. I hope you like it.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 90
Kudos: 116





	1. A new face

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the lovely, amazing, talented [ArcherInventive](https://www.instagram.com/archerinventive/). I saw the image from the moodboard floating around on Tumblr several years ago, and it kind of stuck around in the back of my head for a while. Then, one day I became a SanSan shipper, and the lightbulb just lit up, that I had to write a SanSan based on that picture.
> 
> Seriously, go follow Dame Archer. Not only is she super beautiful (every time I see her, I'm reminded of how bisexual I am) but she also supports LGBTQ and BLM, and I just adore her cosplays and the things she creates (her Witcher? I would literally die for her)
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!

With one last tug of his gauntlets, Sandor finished donning his armor and went to stand next to Bronn, so called of the Blackwater, for his victories on the field there. The shorter man turned to glance at him as he approached, then turned back to gaze out over the field ruefully.

“Fuckin’ rain,” he muttered, and Sandor grunted in agreement. It had been raining all morning, both a blessing and a curse. The blessing was the cool air that accompanied the rain, driving back the heat of the warmer weather that had lingered long into the autumn months. The curse lay before them, the field of the coming tournament, a mass of mud. The rain was supposed to have stopped hours ago, but a light mist still persisted. It would make the tourney a bloody nightmare.

“Is it too much to ask for a bloody dry field? Do they have to let the jousters trample it to shit right before the sword tourney?” the shorter man was still complaining.

“Stop whinging.”

Bronn snapped his head to look up at Sandor, who stood head and shouldes taller than the younger man, scoffed. “I wasn’t whinging.”

“Your lips were moving and you were complaining about something. That’s whinging.”

Bronn started to retort, but Sandor cut him off. “Never mind. I’m going to go check the weather report before I warm up.”

Sandor turned to where his duffle bag was resting on the picnic table. Under the tarp, the contents of the bag were still dry, but he needed to take his things to the main staff area and lock them up. Things went missing at the fair occasionally, not often, but he wasn’t willing to risk either theft or water damage. He pulled his cellphone out of the waterproof pouch he had stowed it in, unlocked it, then cursed when he saw the “no signal” notification in the upper left corner of the screen. He locked the phone again, plugged it into a portable charging pack, then put both phone and charger back into the pouch and zipped it shut. He gathered up the spare bits of his gear lying around: shoes, overshirt, comb, cloth and container of coconut oil he’d used to grease his mail shirt, and stuffed them all back into the bag and zipped it closed.

He turned to Bronn. “I’m headed back to lock up my stuff.”

Bronn waved at him. “Aye, I’m right behind yeh. Want to grab a pint before it starts?”

“We have time?” he’d forgotten to check the time when he’d checked his phone.

“Half an hour.”

Sandor grunted his response. “Right, I’ll meet you at the Broken Anvil.”

Bronn nodded, and Sandor swept out of the changing tent, his feet instantly sinking into the thick mud the moment he stepped out from beneath the protective tarp roof. Cursing under his breath, Sandor began to slog the twenty meters to the main staff tent, where the numerous volunteers, vendors, performers, and the few full-time paid employees could gather. It was a spot away from the crowds, where they could get changed, retrieve messages, swap news about the daily events, and secure their personal belongings. It was one of the few permanent buildings on the fair grounds that could host more than a few dozen people.

Sandor entered at the south door, the door guard, a volunteer who kept out the public, nodding at him. Inside, there was a lounge area to the right, the front desk straight ahead, and lockers to the left. Beyond the front desk, changing rooms lined the back wall. Years ago, out of some misplaced sense of chivalry, the unspoken rule had formed that the nicer, indoor changing rooms were reserved for women only, and the men changed in temporary changing tents outside. Sandor shook his head, silently cursing the dumb cunts for giving up the climate-controlled changing rooms with no words of complaint, wishing he’d been around back then when the decision had been made.

He strode to the row of lockers, found an empty one, and stowed his bag. He was in the process of securing the locker with his combination lock, when he happened to look up as a young woman entered through the south door. Sandor had to stop himself from staring, though he wasn’t sure how successful he’d been.

There were a lot of beautiful women at the Renaissance Fair, most wore long dresses with trailing skirts, hair worn long down their backs or up in complicated, impressive-looking braided coifs. Some played tavern wenches, some were fair damsels that hung about the tourneys, fluttering handkerchiefs, others played ladies in waiting to the queen. Queen Cersei was traditionally played by an older, golden blonde woman, more handsome than beautiful. All those women, but Sandor didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman quite like this one.

She was still in her street clothes, a pair of jeans cuffed at the bottom to keep off the mud. She stopped at the mat at the door to wipe the mud off her brown ankle boots. She shook the rain off her umbrella, then furled it loosely with the little velcro strap. She was slender, but there was something about the way she carried herself that spoke to a strength of arms and legs, and even through her long-sleeved shirt, he could see the gentle swell of her biceps. So maybe not a damsel, then.

Her face was truly heart-stopping, a combination of features both delicate and strong, with creamy skin and expressive blue eyes that made her quite possibly the most beautiful woman Sandor had ever seen. The contrast between soft and hard drew his eye, soft skin coupled with pronounced cheekbones, soft full lips juxtaposed with a strong jutting jaw, deep blue eyes beneath bold dark brows, slightly darker than her long auburn hair, which had been pulled back in a loose bun with a hair tie. Several strands of hair had partially escaped, and laid in curls on her shoulders. One short curl fell forward onto her cheek. Sandor wondered what it would be like to reach out and push that curl back behind her ear, wondered if that cheek felt as soft as it looked.

Blue eyes flashed at him, took in his face, stature, and armor in one quick, roving glance. The corner of her mouth curled, and Sandor realized he was staring, quickly tore his eyes away from her, cursing himself silently. What a fucking idiot he was.

“Nice weather, huh?” the young woman asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. Sandor grunted a response, finishing securing the lock. She headed back to the dressing rooms, and Sandor beat a hasty retreat through the south door.

As he slogged through the mud from the staff building to the North Gate that entered onto the fairgrounds, Sandor kept picturing her face, committing it to memory, trying to recall if she’d had a smattering of freckles across her nose, and how long her eyelashes were. He could curse himself all he wanted, and hurl insults at himself that would have made his father proud, but he couldn’t banish the thought of her from his mind, nor the way her soft blue button-down shirt showed the curve of her breasts, as well as the swell of her sturdy arms. She’d been tall, too, for a woman, came up almost to his shoulder. He liked that.

He shook his head as he finally reached the Broken Anvil and stomped up to the outdoor bar, where a young woman in the standard tavern wench uniform (low-cut dress, with ample décolletage on prominent display) was waiting. Luckily, it was early yet, and she was not busy.

“Two of whatever you got on tap,” he ordered. She poured them out into plastic cups while Sandor fished a wad of money out of the pouch he kept at his belt, counted out the amount owed, and added a few bills for the young woman. The owner of this particular tavern was a friend, and gave him a nice discount on alcohol, so Sandor always compensated by leaving a generous tip.

He took the two cups and found a tall bar table to stand by. After a few minutes, he saw Bronn arrive, almost out of breath.

“Fuck, that mud is a bloody menace.” He took the other cup Sandor offered, drank deeply. “Was Ros at the bar?” His eyes roamed, searching for his favorite red-headed tavern wench.

“No, it was Tandy.” But the mention of red hair reminded him of the beauty he’d spotted earlier, although her hair was a darker red than Ros’s flaming locks. He’d always liked auburn hair, though, more understated. Sandor realized then that he just liked the girl, liked everything about her. If she’d had green hair, he’d be waxing poetical about hair the color of gangrene. He shook his head.

“What’s got you so distracted?” Bronn asked, noticing the bigger man’s gesture.

“Just wishing this fucking rain would stop.”

“Hey, none of that talk,” one of the serving girls hissed as she walked by.

“It’s a tavern, for fuck’s sake. Not like they let kids in here,” Sandor grumbled as he drained his cup. “Your round, pipsqueak.”

“Rude, that is,” Bronn muttered, but dutifully set off for the bar. Sandor glanced out at the woods that surrounded the fairgrounds. Soft rain pattered against the leaves, and against the vines that grew over the trellis above his head, providing some shelter from the seemingly perpetual rainfall. Something shifted above him, though, and a splash of water made its way past the greenery to land on the back of his neck, cold as a witch’s teat.

Sandor cursed. This whole day was a bloody disaster. Almost made a man wish he’d stayed in bed.

He remembered ruby lips, eyes as blue and deep as the ocean, a curl of auburn hair. Well, silver linings, and all that.


	2. Crossed swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tournament begins. Sandor faces a new opponent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy the new chapter! It's my first time describing combat, so I hope it reads well and makes sense. I studied a bunch of sword combat demonstrations on YouTube, so I hope that paid off!
> 
> My Sansa inspiration for this chapter: 

Sandor and Bronn quickly downed their drinks and waded over to the tourney grounds. Sandor went to the stall where he had already set aside his weapons and helm, and quickly began to warm up. Luckily, the march through the mud had done wonders for warming up his legs, so a few swings of his great sword were all that was needed to limber up his arms. A few stretches ensured he wouldn’t pull anything, hopefully.

A volunteer stamped through the refurbished stables where the contestants made ready, announcing five minutes until the tourney began. Sandor pulled his hound’s head helmet over his head and grabbed his sword, following the others out to the field.

The crowd began to roar at the approach of the warriors, and Sandor felt his blood began to warm. The rain had not deterred the spectators, and the stands were overflowing, meaning several dozens of enthusiastic fans stood at the fence that surrounded the tourney grounds, cheering. He was reminded once again of why he made the hour-long drive out to the fairgrounds every weekend in autumn for the melee competitions. There was just something about the weight of the great sword at his side, the roar of the crowd, the sounds of clashing steel that would soon fill the arena. It called to him.

Sandor looked around at the contestants, recognized several combatants from previous seasons. There was Tormund, nicknamed “Giantsbane”, one of a few who rivaled him in height, a few centimeters taller than Sandor. His bright red hair was visible halfway across the arena, even under his helm. A few paces down from Tormund was one of the few women who competed, Brienne, another huge fucker. She was just a few centimeters shorter than Sandor, and had kicked his ass on numerous occasions, although Sandor had also won more than a few bouts against the tall blonde. Jaime, the crowd favorite, stood at the end, waving to the crowd like some kind of politician, golden hair almost the same shade as his gold armor. Sandor rolled his eyes. Seriously, what fucker had gold armor?

There was a new one, someone Sandor didn’t recognize, just entering the grounds. Taller than Jaime, who she stood next to, so probably a head shorter than him, maybe more. Willowy figure, and even at that distance, he could see the way the chain mail clung to the curves of her breasts.

While it wasn’t unheard of for women to compete, it wasn’t common. Most women competed at archery or equestrian, where skilled riders performed complicated and dangerous stunts on horseback. Well, he wished her luck. He knew the melee could be a bit of a boy’s club, but he personally welcomed the new blood. She bore a short-sword at her side, an unusual choice, and a battered wooden shield bearing a stylized depiction of a rose, each petal an oblong, with negative space in between each petal, and a bird opening its mouth in song.

A young man dressed as a herald took the field, addressed the crowd in flowery rhetoric, the kind of stuff the attendees ate up, about the martial competition, and the brave men and women who fought for the valor of the noble lords and gentle ladies, blah blah blah. Eventually, the herald explained the rules to the audience: every contestant had written their name on a slip of paper, which were entered into a bag. Then Queen Cersei would draw two names at a time, and the randomly selected pair would fight. The victor’s name would be put into another bag of winners, the loser into a bag of vanquished, and a new pair would be drawn from the first hat, and on until every contestant had fought once.

Then, the Queen would draw from the winner’s hat and the loser’s hat, and two fights would occur at once, albeit separately, winners battling winners, losers battling losers, until one of each was left. The winner would be crowned with a wreath of laurel, and win a nice little purse, while the winner of the losers would win a crown of pine needles and a flagon of ale.

Queen Cersei arrived, walking out onto the field right before the stands, walking on a path of burlap to keep her dress from getting dirty. She stood on a little platform under a canopy and waved regally to the crowd, then dipped her hand into a velvet bag, pulling out two folded slips of paper. She handed them to the herald, who cried out the names of the first two combatants, “Brienne of Sapphires and Kettleback the Vicious!”

Sandor grinned from under his wolfish helm, the top of which he had pushed back so he could watch the fight. All the contestants shuffled to the back of the field, facing the crowds. As they won or lost, they would go to stand on either side of the field, to the Queen’s right, the winners, or her left, the vanquished. Brienne and Kettleback would prove to be a good match, but Sandor would have put money on Brienne, if he’d been a betting man, that is.

Brienne wielded a sword almost as heavy as his, the edge dulled, though that wouldn’t prevent bruises if she brought that thing down hard enough on your back. All the contestants wore padding, and the swords were made of aluminum, not the heavy, durable steel of real-life weapons, so the risk of serious injury was very small, but scrapes and bruises were common enough.

Kettleback’s swords was shorter, which would seriously disadvantage him with an opponent like Brienne, who bested him in height, almost a full head taller, and reach. The secret to fighting a giant like Brienne was speed, but Sandor highly doubted the man would be fast enough to best the experienced fighter.

Brienne and Kettleback saluted the Queen, then each other before settling into a fighter’s crouch. Brienne held back at first, testing the smaller man’s defenses with a few quick swings, each deflected by the man’s shield. Then it was Kettleback’s turn to go on the offensive. They were both unsteady in the mud, Sandor noticed. Despite the fact that the rain had let up, the ground was still slippery and thick with mud. That would be a disadvantage to everyone, but especially the bigger opponents. There could possibly be several upsets today, in favor of the younger, nimbler fighters. Sandor spared a glance for Arya Stark, the Night Wolf as she liked to call herself, barely one and a half meters tall, and thin as a whip.

Sandor turned back to the fight just in time to see the quick end. Brienne smashed her sword into Kettleback, almost cracking his shield as it whirled out of his hand and into the mud a few meters away. Her sword swung in an arc towards his neck, stopping just a few centimeters short.

The crowd erupted in cheers, and Brienne was declared the winner. Brienne removed her helmet, revealing her short blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and broad smile. She waved graciously to the crowd, shook hands with Kettleback, who congratulated her gamely with a cuff on the shoulder, then they parted to go to their separate sides of the field. If all the bouts were over that quickly, Bronn and Sandor would be back at the tavern in no time.

The Queen selected two more fighters: Loras, the Knight of Flowers and Robb, The Young Wolf. Sandor heard Arya cheering on her brother.

Sandor chuckled. This would be a good match-up. Both opponents were notable swordsmen, favoring a longsword and a lighter shield. The two saluted the Queen and each other, then began to circle one another, giving no more than testing blows for several minutes. Every few minutes there would come a great clash of sword and shield, but each time they separated, neither one wanting to make the mistake of moving too soon.

But Sandor thought it would also be a mistake to wait too long. Every moment the match continued, the greater the risk of overtiring. Not to mention, this was not the only bout each contestant would be fighting. There would be at least one more, possibly two or three more, depending on how far you got.

Robb seemed to agree with Sandor, and made a sudden, bold move to end the match, driving Loras backwards with a barrage of blows. Robb caught Loras’s sword with a sharp blow, driving the blade from Loras’s hand. Having been disarmed, the Knight of Flowers was defeated.

Robb and Loras removed their helms, revealing dark brown curls of the winner, golden brown curls of the vanquished, and they stepped away to join Kettleback and Brienne, respectively. The Queen dipped her hand into the velvet bag twice more, and the herald called the next combatants, himself and someone named Sansa Stark, The Red Wolf.

It was the young woman with the rose and sparrow shield. She trudged out to the middle field and drew her slender blade. Sandor drew his great sword, settled his shield on his arm as he sized up his opponent. She was head and shoulders shorter than him, but so were most of the fighters he faced. He had the advantage of height, reach, and power, but she would be quicker. After examining her figure, his eyes came back to her face. She favored a Norman style helm, face obscured by a metal piece that was fixed to the helmet, it could not be raised or lowered. Blue eyes gazed back at him, narrowed in concentration. She had swiped black makeup across her eyes, probably to help with the glare from the overcast sky. A wise choice.

They turned to salute the Queen, then each other, then began to silently circle one another, looking for weaknesses. Sandor opened with a few blows, a few feints to size her up. She deftly parried, followed by a few attacks of her own, which Sandor blocked. She was always circling him in the mud, forcing him to keep moving. More than once, when he went to pull a foot out of the mud, he worried that he wouldn’t be able to pull free. She noticed, and that was when she began to attack in earnest.

For a few moments, Sandor could do nothing but block and stumble backwards. She was stronger than she looked, and on the defensive, he had to admit she was almost too much for him. He kept up with her, though, and eventually found his opportunity to attack. He noticed with satisfaction the notch his blunt blade made in her wooden shield. However, she danced away from him faster than he could follow, and his offensive pass was cut short.

She circled for a few moments, then attacked again, as ferociously as she had the first time, to Sandor’s chagrin. Again, he held up to the barrage, and by the time she spun away, out of his reach and faster than he could follow, he could no longer deny that she was wearing him down. His breaths became shallower and shallower, while she seemed hardly even winded. Hardly surprising, considering how much easier she could navigate the mud field, and the fact that he was probably ten years her senior.

Sandor couldn’t keep up with her, and he couldn’t outlast her. He would have to try to overpower her. He went on the offense, then, before she got the chance to attack. That seemed to surprise her, but she parried whenever she could, blocked with her hardy shield whenever she couldn’t deflect. On the last blow that she blocked, she quickly turned, pushing at him as hard as she could with shield and sword and bracers. He got his feet turned under him and went down into the mud with a splat.

The crowd roared, chants of “Red Wolf! Red Wolf!” ringing throughout the stands. By all rights, Sandor should have been furious, bested by such a young pup, but he had to admit she’d fought well, and used the mud to her advantage, as any real fighter would have done. To his surprise, she gave him her hand and anchored herself in the mud. With her tugging, and him pushing up with his other hand, he was soon hauled to his feet. Sandor pulled off his helm this time, rather than just lift the upper half of the hound’s face, which, when opened, made him appear to be peering out of a dog’s mouth, teeth surrounding his face in a ring. He sheathed his sword at his side, and stowed the helm under his left arm as he held his right hand out to his opponent.

Sansa pulled her helm off with some difficulty, her hair had apparently stuck to some part of the steel contraption. When she finally freed herself, Sandor heard a tiny snapping noise, and saw a slim hair-tie break off and fall into the mud. Masses of red curls fell free of the helm, and Sandor found himself face-to-face with the slender auburn beauty he’d seen in the staff building. She shook out her hair, cursing under her breath at the broken hair tie. She smiled at Sandor once she managed to clear all the hair back from her face, a huge beaming grin. She took his extended hand, giving it a shake before releasing him.

“Damn, you nearly had me there! I wouldn’t have won if it weren’t for the mud,” she acquiesced gracefully.

“Ah, don’t be too sure, you ran circles around me. Well fought!”

“You also.”

The Queen was drawing the next names, and the herald proclaimed in a booming voice, “Arya The Night Wolf and Tormund Giantsbane.” Sandor withdrew to the left side of the field, to stand next to Loras, while Sansa joined her brother Robb on the right side.

Sandor knew of the Starks, of course, everyone who regularly attended the Renaissance Fair knew the Starks. They were practically royalty. The Stark patriarch, Ned, had been winning tournaments since before Sandor was born, while Robb had been an established swordsman for years now. Arya was entering the tournament for her second year, and had damn near won last year. Several of the other Stark children competed in horseback and archery. Sandor thought he remembered Sansa as a perennial champion with a bow. It seems she’d decided to take up the sword along with her siblings. Sandor thought if the wars of old ever returned, epic contests like the Dance of the Dragons or the War of the Five Kings, the Stark family would be formidable indeed.

Tall, beautiful, graceful, strong, with a sunny disposition and a dazzling smile, and she could put him on his ass with a sword? Sandor was in danger of falling deeply in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Sansa inspiration for when she pulls her helmet off: 
> 
> [Dame Archer removing her helm](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bx1Aiv8DMdS/)
> 
> and:
> 
> I assigned numbers to the 12 contestants and used a random number generator to assign the fights, and it picked Sansa and Sandor. I had originally intended for them to meet later in the bout, but I liked the idea of Sansa getting her first victory in a fight with Sandor.


	3. The Red Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourney continues. Sansa remembers her bout with Sandor from her point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a while. These chapters are taking me a little bit longer to write, but after I get past the tourney, it should go quicker. I think there will be one more chapter and then the tourney will be over, and then I plan on a few chapters after that.

Sansa stood on the side of the lists, exultant. She could hardly believe she had actually won her first public contest, against a man as renowned and experienced as Sandor Clegane, “The Hound”. Sansa leaned against the fence, spotted a volunteer and called him over.

“Can you ask someone to bring me some water and something to pull my hair back with? The damned thing broke. Anything will do, even a rubber band, if that’s all you can find.”

The volunteer reassured Sansa that he would find something, and ran off to fetch the desired items.

Sansa turned back to see Arya and the Giantsbane circling one another. Sansa chuckled to herself at the sight of the giant man huffing and puffing as Arya put him through his paces. Her feet scarcely seemed to sink in the mud at all, and she used it to her advantage as much as Sansa had, if not more. Arya needed every advantage she could get, as she was two heads shorter than the big man, and several stone lighter.

Sansa knew better than to doubt her younger sister. The Starks regularly sparred with Brienne of Sapphires, and Sansa had seen Arya hold her own against the larger woman, who despite her size could be quite quick on her feet. Arya used her speed to land several body blows on the Giantsbane. There were four ways to defeat an opponent in the sword tourney. One was to knock them off their feet, although the opponent had to be flat on their back or front and unable to rise within a few seconds. So just driving them to their knees wouldn’t do it. It had to be long enough to show that you would have time to approach your downed opponent and deliver a killing blow, not that such a blow would ever be given, of course. The goal was just to display their skills, not to maim or incapacitate.

Second, you could disarm your opponent, as Robb had. Third, you could “land” a blow against an opponent’s neck or unguarded head. “Land” because you couldn’t actually hit them in the neck or head, you had to stop just short. It was hard to earn a win this way, most helms covered head and neck fairly well, but if your opponent opted for a short helm that exposed the neck, or did not wear a helm, which was very rare, then you could try to swing close enough to their neck to get the win. Too close, though, and you could hit them, which was an automatic disqualification. Third, you could land five body hits, which appeared to be what Arya was attempting now. The blows had to be spaced out with no less than five seconds between blows, and had to land between shoulder and waist. Luckily for Arya, Tormund presented a large target.

Sansa counted along: one on the ribs, one below the arm, two to the chest, then a final arcing slash that would have disemboweled the man had they been fighting with real weapons. The herald declared Arya the winner, she shook hands with the Giantsbane, who reached down to ruffle her hair and laughed before Arya came to stand beside Robb and Sansa.

Robb picked her up, spinning her around in a bear hug while the crowd chanted the Stark name over and over. Sansa pulled Arya to her, pressing a kiss to her sister’s forehead.

Next, Arya rooted for Gendry the Bull against Pod the Rod. Pod had good form, but was relatively inexperienced. Gendry lacked somewhat in technique, but made up for it with strength and a cool head. Pod tried to play the mud to his advantage like Sansa and Arya, but was not as nimble. Gendry caught him across the chest with his sword, and Pod slipped, fell on his back.

Gendry pulled Pod up and they shook hands, laughing and waving to the crowd, before Pod went to stand next to Tormund. Gendry made his way over to stand next to Arya, gave her a wink and a smile. Arya played it cool, punching him on the shoulder.

“I’d have totally kicked your ass,” she bragged.

The volunteer returned with a hair tie, a thicker one, to Sansa’s relief, and a few bottles of water. Sansa thanked him profusely, opened her bottle and took a quick swig, then gave the bottle to Arya to hold as she tied her hair back in a high ponytail. She’d probably have to redo it after her next fight, but it would work for now.

Lastly, without having to draw the last names, Bronn the Blackwater and Jaime Kingslayer (he’d defeated the King of the Ren Faire once, and the nickname stuck) strode forward, saluted, and set to circling one another. Sansa watched, rapt. She’d grown up watching the Kingslayer fight. She didn’t remember the battle with the actor who played the King every year, a big man who fought with a great hammer and was a force on the tourney field. It had been an epic fight, lasting for almost half an hour. The actor who played the King retired a few years ago, and had never been replaced, Queen Cersei preferring to rule alone.

For all of her hero worship of Jaime, she had to admit the Blackwater was good. He was quicker than Jaime, which seemed to be the most prized quality of the day. He kept Jaime dancing, but neither started to tire. Instead, both seeming to realize they couldn’t achieve the quick _coup de grace,_ they began to land body blows on one another. Jaime landed the first one, a slash against the meat of Bronn’s upper-left chest, Bronn getting the next two, blows to the guts and left side of the Kingslayer. Jaime lands two more, then Bronn got two more, so they were four to three. Then Bronn reached under Jaime’s sword arm and got a hit on Jaime’s ribs.

The herald declared Bronn the winner. The two shook hands, although Jaime looked upset, barely waving to the crowd before stalking off to the side of the vanquished. The Queen was presented with the next velvet bag, selecting Sansa and Arya to fight first. Sansa turned to her sister, gave her a quick hug. She reached up to secure her hair, then pulled on her helm. For the other battle, Kettleback and Tormund faced off, but Sansa only had eyes for Arya.

They circled one another, questing, looking for weaknesses. They were both pretty fast, but Arya had the slight advantage, being shorter and lighter than Sansa. Sansa, however, had the better reach, and proved it by getting two body hits fairly quickly. Sansa knew she would never unbalance Arya, nor would she ever disarm the younger fighter. Disarming was easiest with an opponent who held a heavy blade, and in a thickly-gloved hand. Arya’s blade was the lightest on the field, and she gripped it with thin fingerless gloves. Sansa doubted she could go for the neck; Arya’s helm covered head and left barely any neck exposed.

So she darted around as quick as she could, getting body hits. Unfortunately, that was also easier said than done. Arya was short and slim, and her shield covered most of her torso. But Sansa was crafty. On the third hit she took, however, she ended up giving one as well, as she had exposed her left side to Arya’s quick blade. Arya quickly got another, spinning quickly to hit her on the back before darting away.

They were evenly matched at three hits. Sansa circled, trying to think of a strategy to take down the smaller, quicker opponent. Suddenly, Sansa noticed that Arya was blinking. The sun had come out a little bit, and Arya was dazzled by the sudden burst of light. Sansa put the sun at her back, and lunged. Catching Arya unawares, she earned another body hit. Arya realized the weakness and circled away, her back to the light. Sansa circled, knowing she only had to get one more hit, but knowing she could not count on Arya to tire. Far from it, it was Sansa whose breath was coming to her in short gasps. She forced her legs to move, ignoring the deep, aching burn. She knew that Arya’s legs were still fresh.

She decided to go in close for a grapple. That would surprise her sister; she usually didn’t go in close range, and if she acted suddenly, she might catch her off guard before she could counter, and get the final body hit she needed to win.

Feinting like she was just testing Arya’s guard, Sansa rushed her sister, knocking her rose and sparrow shield against the younger woman’s black wolf shield, raining blows down on Arya’s left sword-hand with her right, until she got the chance to knock away Arya’s shield and slash at the girl’s chest.

The herald declared the fight over, and Sansa stood, ankle-deep in mud and exhausted. Arya grabbed her as she wavered, holding her up as Sansa pulled off her helm and nearly tackled Arya with a big bear hug. Both girls were laughing, wiping sweat and mist from their eyes. Sansa leaned down and kissed her sister’s forehead, mussing her hair, to Arya’s chagrin, before letting her go. Sansa picked up her sword and shield from where she’d let them drop on the mud, and trudged back to right side of the field. She quickly wiped her sword off on her pants, and sheathed it, as the next fights were announced: Brienne versus Bronn, and Sandor versus Pod.

Robb guffawed as he patted Bronn on the back. “Good luck, man! You’re going to need it!”

Bronn sighed. “Fuck me,” before pulling his helm down over his head.

Sansa leaned back against the fence, accepting the bottle of water her brother handed her, getting her breath back. She watched Brienne and Bronn fight it out for a few minutes, before switching her attention to the other end of the field, to Sandor and Pod.

The poor kid didn’t stand a chance, Sansa saw that right away. Sandor had had four bouts to rest up, and it showed. He was back to full-strength, and struggling less in the mud. Podd tried to keep away from the larger man, but Sandor was like a raging berserker, never letting up on the younger man or letting him get away from him. Sansa wondered if he wanted to prove himself after getting beat by a younger woman.

He’d taken it well, though. There’s many a man would have been sore, but if he was, he hadn’t showed it. He seemed genuinely impressed with her performance.

Sansa played the scene back again, pulling off her helm after a brief struggle with her hair, full of adrenaline and endorphins, heady and elated at her victory. She remembered seeing him at the lockers, and though he’d had no idea who she was, she knew him, of course. He’d been a staple on the Ren Faire circuit for years, she and Robb and Arya had spent their teenage years cheering him on, though Sansa had to admit a partiality to the Kingslayer. But she had grown to appreciate the Hound more and more over the last few years, as she became more interested in the sport. The sheer power he displayed when he fought, the tactician’s mind, how he sought out his opponent’s weaknesses and struck without hesitation or mercy. Jaime might be handsome, and he was good on horseback, but he didn’t have Sandor’s natural instinct for the sword.

Not that Sandor wasn’t handsome, though he wasn’t in the classical sense. His long raven hair, swept back and secured with an elastic band, did leave his scarred face bare for the world to see, but the burns had faded over time, and Sansa hardly saw them anymore. It was his eyes that captivated Sansa, when she’d finally pushed her cursed hair out of the way on the field, gasping for air, his eyes had been on her, recognition dawning. Their grey depths seemed to scan her, analyze her the same way he would an opponent’s stance, seemed to see straight through her. So tall, she wasn’t used to having to tilt her head back to look in a man’s eyes. That was when she’d admitted he’d nearly beaten her, because for a minute she couldn’t believe she actually had. She shivered at the thought that for a moment she had been so close to him, that she had actually had the audacity to bum-rush this mountain of a man with her comparatively tiny body, and in her hubris, had actually won.

He’d begrudgingly, though with good humor, admitted that she had fought well, and they’d parted. But Sansa couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to stand next to him again, not separated by thick armor and mail, helms and gloves. She smiled and applauded when Sandor disarmed Pod with a skillful twist of his sword, and soon went to stand by Tormund, as Pod and Bronn both left the tourney field.

She saw Sandor’s eyes flick in her direction, though he quickly looked away, and grinned to herself. Maybe he was wondering the same thing.


	4. Crowning the winner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outcome of the tournament is decided

Sansa started to gear up again as Robb defeated Gendry in a long, drawn-out match that left the Young Wolf winded. She knew she would be fighting again soon, as there were only three opponents left in her side of the bracket, and hoped it would be Robb rather than Brienne. Robb was tired from the bout with Gendry, who had made Robb fight tooth and nail for every body hit Robb got on him, and gave as good as he got. Sansa had no illusions about her chances against the tall, powerfully built swordswoman, knew her odds against her tiring brother were much better.

Sansa distantly noticed that Jaime defeated Loras with a quick swing at the neck. Now there were three vanquished remaining, Tormund, Sandor, and Jaime. Two of the vanquished would face off, and the winner of that match would face the third. A little unfair for whoever emerged victorious from that first match, but there would be no more simultaneous bouts this round, so they would get a bit of rest until the other bout was finished.

Queen Cersei drew the vanquished first: Sandor and Tormund. Sansa spent the match watching Sandor closely, studying his technique for taking down the larger man. It might help, in case she had to fight Brienne. Though, she thought with dismay, she didn’t have the Hound’s raw power.

It was not a short fight, but Sandor was able to over-power the Giantsbane eventually. Sandor was calm and collected, never rash or hurried. Sansa liked that about him. Many men would have merely relied on their strength, or their height, or their reach to win a fight. Sandor approached all of his opponents with the same care and tactician’s mind, even smaller opponents like Sansa or Pod. He didn’t assume he had the victory in hand, never cocky or arrogant. Sandor drove Tormund to his knees with blow after blow, at which point it was an easy thing to disarm the man with a sharp blow to the lower shaft of the Giantsbane’s sword, sending the blade flying.

Sansa didn’t have time to be swept up in the victory, as her name was drawn along with Robb’s. She shook Robb’s hand formally before making her way to the center of the field. After saluting the Queen and each other, they crossed blades, Robb going early on the attack, probably in an attempt to catch her off guard. Sansa blocked and parried quickly, not letting him push her back. She would tire quickly that way. She stood her ground, pushing back when he pushed against her, and she very nearly got his feet tangled under him like she had Sandor.

He fell on one knee and since it was only one knee down, it didn’t count as a victory. Sansa was overly hasty in pursuing her advantage. Robb, instead of getting flustered and trying to rise immediately, met her attack from the prone position, then countered with a slash. She hadn’t expected an attack from that position, and while she got her sword up to block, her grip was unsteady and the sword flew from her hands.

She gaped at the sword then turned back to Robb, still on one knee, who burst out laughing. Sansa couldn’t help laughing as well as she gave her brother her hand to help him rise and they pulled off their helms.

“I don’t know how I did that! I thought for sure you had me,” he said with a laugh.

“I know! Well, I know what I’ll be drilling tomorrow,” she said, retrieving her sword.

“Nah, you did well. That was unexpected, I don’t even know what made me think of it. Don’t know what I’d have done if Gendry had pulled that on me!”

He turned to the cheering crowds and lifted his sister’s hand up in the air. The herald announced the results of the match, that the Young Wolf had defeated the Red Wolf by disarming, then made a special announcement.

“The crown would be pleased to acknowledge the first tourney of Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf, in which that esteemed lady has placed third overall. Kindly show thy appreciation for the gentle lady! An esteemed debut, my lords and ladies!”

Robb clapped her on the back, and stood back applauding her. Sansa smiled and waved, a little abashed at the attention. She took a bow then tramped off the field.

Sansa stood at the fences and watched Sandor and Jaime face off. Sansa sensed no love lost between the two men, noted they seemed actively interested in not just winning, but defeating the opponent. Sansa wondered at that. Most of the matches were light-hearted. At the very least, the opponents knew one another, in many cases they trained together in the off-season, and everyone approached the matches as just fun entertainment. Bragging rights were certainly on the line, but nothing more. It was even traditional for winners of each match to treat their vanquished opponent to a drink after hours, though it wasn’t a rule.

Of course, rivalries did exist, and not everyone got along. That must be the explanation for the vitriol between the two.

Not that they did anything overtly against the rules. Sansa thought the average bystander might not even notice the animosity, especially since their facial expressions were blocked by their helms. It was little things that Sansa noticed, the way they swung at each other just a little bit harder than they’d swung at anybody else all day, little jabs at one another, using just a little more force than needed. If not open animosity, then it was very clear both men were fighting like they meant it.

Sansa admired Jaime’s fighting form, active and athletic, but also responsive and adaptive. But more and more, she admired Sandor’s style: savage and instinctual, rough and improvisational. He pushed and encroached on his opponent’s space shamelessly, battered and bullied, delivered blows so stinging that he could hear Jaime hiss; and yet, Sansa couldn’t help but admire these traits.

The fight seemed to go on a long time. Each fighter landed body hits on the other, Sandor on Jaime’s shoulder, Jamie got a hit on Sandor’s hip, Jamie’s belly, Sandor’s chest. Jaime got two more hits on Sandor, then Sandor got one more on Jaime. After that, with four hits each, the two circled, swords clashing only cursorily, neither engaging more than a few blocked blows. They circled, reminding Sansa of wary cats.

Finally, Sandor attacked, his sword meeting Jaime’s at about the height of Jaime’s head, closer to Jaime than to Sandor. Jaime pushed back slightly, edges of the blades sliding slightly near the hilt with a scrape. Sandor, still blocking Jaime’s blade with his, dropped his shield, bringing his left hand up to the hilt, pushing the hilt towards Jaime’s face. Sansa could hardly believe that Sandor would take this attack. If it didn’t work, he’d left himself vulnerable without his shield. If Jaime didn’t block the hit, Sandor would have ended up hitting Jaime in the head, and would be disqualified.

Of course, Jaime did block the hit from instinct, shifting the blade to follow Sandor’s, so his sword was held upright in front of his face, Sandor’s helm only a hand away from Jaime’s. Then, Sandor swung his left arm in between their bodies, Sansa thought for a moment he was going to try to punch Jaime. Instead, he swept his arm over Jaime’s right, still blocking Jaime’s blade with his own held in his right hand. As Sandor locked his left arm around Jaime’s right, his right hand pushed the blade of Jaime’s sword down to the mud, and with a turn of Sandor’s blade, the sword fell from Jaime’s hand to the mud.

The whole encounter had taken just a few seconds. The whole crowd sat stunned, then, as they realized how handily Sandor had disarmed Jaime, they cheered, leaping to their feet. Jaime pushed away from Sandor, who bent to pick up Jaime’s sword before handing it back, hilt first. They both removed their helms and faced the crowds, waving and smiling, a big cheeky grin on Jaime’s face that looked decidedly forced, a small smirk on Sandor’s as he took a bow. The queen crowned Sandor, looking slightly bored, though Sansa thought maybe that was just her regal air, and Sansa cheered with the rest of the crowd when Sandor took his final bow before leaving the field. He went to stand around the fence with Bronn, to watch the final match between Robb and Brienne, and Sandor thought he saw him glance over at Sansa.

As Robb and Brienne shook hands, Arya came to stand next to Sansa, who threw her arm around her sister. “Think he can do it?” Sansa asked the younger girl, who had a hawk’s eye for strategy.

Arya shook her head. “I don’t know. Brienne’s tough as they come. She’s stronger than him, and she’s just as skilled. She’s more rested, too.”

Arya’s prediction proved accurate, though Robb didn’t give Brienne an easy time of it. It was a good fight, the best of the day. Robb darted in past Brienne’s defenses, gave several hits to the chest, more than he was receiving back. The crowd hung on their every movement, gasping when the swords clashed, cheering when a hit was scored. For a while it looked like Robb might win on hits, since he was up three to one, but then Brienne drove at Robb’s shield with her shield, knocking it to the side, knocked his blade away with her blade before turning her own blade back to his neck. Her movements were a blur, but it soon became apparent she’d scored a hit on his neck.

The crowds erupted into cheers as the herald declared Brienne the winner. Robb unhelmed and shook hands with the taller woman, grinning from ear-to-ear. Brienne herself wore a dazzling smile as she knelt before the Queen, who crowned the champion with a wreath of laurels. The crowd began to disperse as Brienne stood, and the other combatants crowded over to shake her hand.

Sansa clapped a hand on Brienne’s shoulder as she went by. “Well done!” Arya crowed. “Will we see you later?”

Sansa didn’t wait to hear Brienne’s answer, she’d noticed Sandor standing by the fencing with his friend, Bronn. She noted that Sandor didn’t look bad with his crown of pine needles, the dark green complimenting his long brown hair, still dark from the rain. The men both fell silent as Sansa approached.

“You fought well, today,” she smiled at Sandor, pushing a damp curl behind her ear. She was sure her hair must look awful, what with the rain and the helm. It would take a lot of brushing and cursing to get it untangled again. His grey eyes flicked over her face, and he nodded a little stiffly.

“You as well.”

“I think we’re all over-looking my contributions,” Bronn protested. “It’s not always about winning, you know.”

Sansa glanced at Bronn. “Of course. Will I see you at the after-party?” She’d ostensibly addressed them both, but her eyes went just to Sandor. “I owe you a pint, of course.”

“Course. We’ll be there,” Sandor replied, a little gruffly.

Sansa smiled and turned to walk back to the staff room, already thinking about what she would wear. “Great. I’ll see you later, then.”

She didn’t even notice when Arya snuck back to her side, elbowing Sansa. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Sansa asked, pulling the hair tie out her hair, letting her curls down, shaking out as much of the water as she could as they walked.

“You have a crush on Sandor?”

“Of course not.” Sansa could feel a blush creep across her cheeks, a sure sign she was lying. “I just think he’s interesting.”

“Hmm, interesting. He’s two hands taller than you, broad as a barn, his forearm is the size of your thigh, and he looks at you like he’s starving and you’re the last chicken dinner in the world, and you’re ‘interested’. Uh-huh. Sure.”

Sansa swatted at her sister as they walked. After a moment of walking in silence, Sansa piped up. “He really looks at me like that?”

Arya threw her head back and guffawed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Now that the tournament is over and I don't have to write any more fight scenes (which are just as hard to write as smut, seriously, it's just constantly asking myself, "wait, whose hands are where?") I should go a little quicker. In the next chapter, Sansa's going to walk around the Faire with Margaery, and I'll really get to put in all those little details that I love about RenFest (turkey legs, half-naked men, the bards!)
> 
> If you want to see where I got my inspiration for Sandor's disarming of Jaime, and because I still don't know if I really did it justice, here's the video. It's got several other disarming techniques that I couldn't use, since they can't hit each other in the faces with the hilts of their swords (lol), but the one I used is at the 5 minute mark.
> 
> [Sword disarming techniques](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7eQ0VB68_qk)


	5. To the victor...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the tourney, Sansa and Sandor meet again in the Faire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry about the delay! Hope you enjoy. There should be two or three more chapters.

Sandor watched Sansa and her sister walking and laughing. For a moment he wondered if they were laughing at him, but then he shooed the thought away. That was grade-school paranoia and he knew it. Why would she have made it a point to stop and congratulate him and ask if he was going to the after-party if she didn’t have at least some kind of friendly feeling toward him?

_ Just friendly?  _ a part of him wondered.

He’d seen her standing by the fence, watching him as he’d fought Jaime. He’d had to force himself not to look at her, which became easier as the fight wore on. Jaime was the kind of opponent who demanded all of your attention. He’d seen her cheer when he won, yelling and clapping for him. He usually prided himself on being a hard-headed bastard who didn’t care if the crowd was on his side. It had been surprising to him to hear the crowds roar on his behalf this time, instead of against. Pleasant, but surprising all the same.

Bronn knocked Sandor’s shoulder. “Come on, I’m hungry.”

Sandor followed Bronn back to the barn that served as a staging ground, then back to the tents where they had changed into their combat gear before. Sandor dried his sword before replacing it back in the sheath, then did his best to dry his clothes. There was still mud on the back of his breeches, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. A staff member had brought warm, damp towels. Sandor used one to wipe his face and neck, cleaning as much of the sweat and mud from the morning away as he could. Sandor finished by using the towel to tossle his hair, until it was damp, but cleaner than it had been before. He combed it back with his fingers and let it air-dry.

Feeling refreshed, he and Bronn walked back to the main staff building, locked away their swords and helms, and then set off to join the throngs of people already enjoying the faire.

Sandor didn’t usually like crowds, but the nice things about the Faire was that it hardly ever seemed over-crowded. The Faire sprawled through a square mile of partly-wooded grounds, with dirt paths that led through it all. There were a few permanent structures, shops, food stalls, stages. The shops sold everything from renaissance-themed clothes, tunics and gowns, to jewelry, perfume, incense, hats and flower crowns, small musical instruments, pottery, weapons. The food stalls sold warm pastries, cold beer, funnel cakes, sandwiches, kebabs, and turkey legs the size of Sandor’s fist. Performance stages dotted the grounds, with everything from soloist to large troupes, singing, juggling, performing comedies, tumbling routines, elaborate fencing duels for the honor of a young maid’s hand.

Sandor and Bronn found the service entrance to one of the food stalls that knew them, and they bought cups brimming with ale as well as turkey legs, at a discount and without having to wait.

Bronn grew chatty as they walked, alternating bites of the juicy roasted turkey meat with swigs of the deliciously cool, crisp ale. Bronn kept up a running commentary on the stalls they passed, greeting other performers they met, occasionally cheering when they were recognized by a spectator from the tourney. Sandor listened, raised his cup in greeting if he also knew someone Bronn greeted, nodded gruffly if his fighting had been complimented, but he mainly let Bronn prattle on. It used to annoy him, the other man’s loquacity, but he was used to it now, and it helped that Bronn never really expected a response. It left Sandor free to pursue his own thoughts.

Sandor found himself looking for her, the Red Wolf, Sansa, in every group of young women that passed. Some were dressed in period costume, most wore modern jeans and shorts. He wasn’t sure what Sansa would wear, if she would have kept her armor or changed into a gown. Most of the other contestants liked to spend at least a little time walking the fairgrounds, and most did so in their combat gear. It helped to build a following, gain notoriety.

He finally saw her, walking with another woman, stopping for a moment to listen to a wandering minstrel, strumming a lute. The minstrel stopped to serenade her friend, and both women stood giggling, as the young man sang a bawdy tune.

Sandor had finished his turkey leg a while ago, and instinctively wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, running his hand through his hair. He tore his eyes away from the pair, but found his gaze pulled back, all the same.

Her friend was lovely, wearing a long, spring green gown, which almost looked like a long, sleeveless coat. A white underdress with long white sleeves showed underneath, in the front where the green dress did not quite meet, and on the bodice, where the green dress laced up from waist to just under the bust. The friend had long, wavy light-brown hair, and dimples when she smiled, which was often.

Sandor quickly dismissed the friend in favor of staring at Sansa, who still wore her hose and tunic from the tourney, with leather boots that reached up to her knees, secured with leather ties. Over it all she wore her mail, which clung to her breasts. A shaft of sunlight broke through the trees and wrapped around her hair like a cocoon, throwing a halo of light around her crimson locks. She looked like a Renaissance painting, a cherub or a madonna, perfect and ethereal.

Sandor should have been embarrassed staring at her like this, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. When he nearly ran into a gaggle of children, though, he finally had to stop staring and watch the path in front of him.

“What in the Seven Hells has got your attention?” Bronn asked, and followed Sandor’s eyes as he looked back towards the pair. Bronn grabbed Sandor’s arm and pulled the bigger man aside before he could run into a man carrying a cup of ale in each hand.

“All right, if you’re going to stare at a girl, let’s stop trying to walk at the same time. Your brain clearly can’t do two things at once.”

Safely out of the way of pedestrians, Bronn turned his gaze to the two women, who were moving away from the minstrel now, shaking their heads and laughing.

“Fuck, she’s gorgeous,” Bronn sighed. Sandor felt a moment of intense jealousy before Bronn added, “Redhead’s not bad either. Let’s go talk to them.”

Sandor barked out a shorty, choppy laugh. “The other one’s not gonna be interested in you!”

“Well, the Red Wolf’s not gonna be interested in you either, you big lummox. She’s way out of your league!”

Sandor shoved Bronn hard enough to send him flying into a low bush that bordered the path, then headed off to follow Sansa and her friend.

Sansa and Margaery had stopped walking to listen to a singing minstrel, strumming a lute and belting out suggestive lyrics that were just tame enough not to offend the parents and children walking about. They endured his ribald singing and come-ons for a few moments, then moved on, giggling to themselves.

They stopped a few meters away at a little open store to admire some beautiful flower crowns and headdresses woven out of silver and gold, with flashing plastic jewels embedded in the curving metal. Margaery tried one on, admiring her reflection in a mirror before removing the crown and replacing it on the display stand.

“Don’t look now, but two men are staring at us,” Margaery whispered to Sansa, nodding towards the mirror. Sansa leaned over to look into the mirror from Margaery’s position, and saw Sandor and Bronn strolling their way.

“It’s two of the competitors from the tourney, Sandor Clegane and Bronn of the Blackwater.”

Margaery turned from the mirror, stepped aside from the display to allow other patrons to shop. “Sandor, the one you beat?”

“Yes. He won among the vanquished, though.”

“Oh, did he?” Margaery replied in a simpering tone. Sansa glanced at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Margaery turned and looked at the two men, who had almost caught up. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!”

She grinned at her friend as the men caught up.

“Hello, ladies. How are you enjoying the faire?” Bronn began as always, tone light and slightly flirtatious, directing his words to both women, but with eyes fixed on Margaery.

“We’re having a wonderful time, aren’t we, Sansa?”

“I’m Bronn of the Blackwater. This is my friend Sandor Clegane, the Hound.”

“I know you by your reputations, of course! I’m Margaery, and you know Sansa Stark, of course, the Red Wolf.”

“May we buy you lovely ladies a drink? I know a tavern just around the corner that always gives me a discount.”

Margaery looked to Sansa, who nodded. With all parties in agreement, they set off for the tavern, Margaery and Bronn walking side by side, Bronn throwing all his charm at the lovely woman, and Sandor and Sansa walking together behind them.

“Your friend is quite a talker,” Sansa observed after a few moments of silence, not sure what else to say.

“Aye, he certainly enjoys the sound of his own voice,” Sandor replied in his gruff, even tones.

Sansa watched in amusement as Margaery began to chatter at Bronn, who interjected occasional grunts and affirmations.

“Don’t worry, Margaery can talk anyone’s ear off,” Sansa replied, turning to Sandor and grinning.

Sandor returned her smile with one of his own. He had a nice smile, Sansa thought, when he wasn’t being gruff.

They turned a corner and headed into the Smoking Log.


	6. Quiet Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor enjoy a few drinks, then take a walk through the Faire. Sansa makes a sudden wardrobe change before the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I am thinking one or maybe two more chapters. We're definitely going to get to the sappy stuff next chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> Picset:  
> 

Sandor insisted on buying the first round. Sansa tried to remind him that, by tradition of the competition, she owed him a drink, but he just shrugged and said she could buy him a round later. Sansa sipped her ale across from Sandor. Margaery and Bronn had already broken the ice, fished in the stream, and were just about ready to go skinny dipping. They had all sat down at a table for four, but after the drinks arrived, Bronn found excuses to scoot his chair closer and closer to Margaery, and the two were now sitting at the corner, more or less oblivious to the other two.

Sansa smiled a little awkwardly at Sandor, definitely unsure of how to begin. She started to ask a question at the same time Sandor spoke.

“Go ahead,” they both said at the same time, then laughed.

“Go on, I insist,” Sandor said, taking a sip of his ale.

“I was just going to ask how long you’ve been doing this, the tourneys, I mean.”

Sandor winced slightly. “Is that a bad question?” Sansa asked nervously.

“No, course not. You’re just making me date myself. I’ve probably been doing this in one form or another since before you were born.”

Sansa’s eyebrows raised. “You can’t be that old! I’m 28,” she exclaimed.

“Oh, well not that long, then. But I was a page starting around 10 or so. Did that for 6 years, then they let me fight in the juniors for a little bit, until I worked my way up to the adult tourney. That was 16 or 17 years ago.” He smiled at Sansa over his mug of ale. “You can do the math. Damn near 25 years, I’ve been in the tourneys. And what about yourself? First year in the sword tourney, but didn’t you shoot before that?”

Sansa nodded. “Yes, I still do a little archery. But Arya and Robb kept telling me I ought to try the sword. I practice with them, and have done for years. I just always thought- well, I thought it was a bit of a guy thing. But Arya kept nagging me, saying it wasn’t all men, Brienne’s been fighting for a long time now. So finally I caved. The organizers signed me up right away after seeing me fight Arya and Robb for my audition, think they were a little relieved to have another woman participating.”

“Aye, it’s been a boys’ club too long. Glad you and your sister decided to join and keep us on our toes.”

Sandor finished his ale, and Bronn reluctantly left Margaery’s charms to order them another round.

“That sister of yours is going to win her first tourney soon, mark my words. I heard she’s a match for Brienne, at times.”

Sansa smiled, though her expression was decidedly coy. “Well, I don’t know if I should discuss her training strategies with an opponent, but she’s been known to hold her own against Brienne, sure.”

Sandor held his hands up in a surrendering gesture, laughed. “I can take a hint. Meant no disrespect or subterfuge. Just wanted to say she’s impressive.”

Sansa agreed as Bronn returned with a fresh pitcher of ale, topping off their mugs. Sandor raised a glass, and Bronn and Margaery followed suit.

“To the Red Wolf,” Sandor toasted, and Bronn and Margaery repeated the toast as they touched mugs together. A few nearby tables caught the words and also held up glasses.

“To the Red Wolf! Several nearby tables saluted. Sansa’s cheeks colored and she laughed as she raised a mug to the enthusiastic fans who had toasted her.

Sansa didn’t have to buy a drink for the rest of the afternoon, in fact, she ended up turning many patrons down.

“I can’t drink anymore, I’m a light-weight!” she protested, voice taking on a light slur. Sandor got her some water, made sure she drank most of it, then proposed getting out of the bar for a while.

“What about Margaery?” Sansa asked, looking about as she realized she hadn’t seen her friend in a while. She finally found the brunette, standing at the bar, drinking Bronn under the table.

“Is he alright?” Sansa laughed. The man was decidedly green-looking. “She’ll never bang him if he hurls on her.”

“Eh, he’ll be fine. Soon enough he’ll admit defeat. He’s probably not as drunk as he looks.”

He led Sansa outside into the fresh, crisp autumn air. The dry leaves were rustling like castanets overhead, and the sun was starting to dip down towards the treeline. This was Sansa’s favorite time of day at the Faire. After a few drinks at lunch, she would be pleasantly tipsy but not drunk (although that day she’d a few more than a few). But the crisp air and a leisurely stroll were just the things to clear her head. She remembered coming to the Faire as a little girl, and her Father picking her up and carrying her on his back when she got tired. She would lean her head against his shoulder and look at the trees and the golden slants of light coming down through the tree-cover. It was one of her fondest childhood memories.

Sandor walked next to Sansa up a winding path to one of Sansa’s favorite sections, where most of the crafters had their shops. One woman was seated in front of a store with her spinning wheel, transforming tufts of wool into a fine, thin thread that would later be plied with other similar threads to make yarn. A man had brought his portable electric forge, and was giving a demonstration on authentic smithing on an old, enormous anvil that looked heavy as an elephant. Sansa wondered how he moved it, or if it was a permanent part of the fair grounds. A young man was giving an embroidery lesson, and in the next stall, a woman demonstrated the delicate art of fletching, tying gentle but sturdy knots to secure a feather to the end of an arrow.

Sansa grew to enjoy the comfortable silence with Sandor. He didn’t feel the need to fill the air with talking, and after Bronn and Margaery’s almost incessant prattle, Sansa appreciated that. They had not spoken for several minutes when Sansa caught the whiff of warm nuts and brown sugar.

“Oh, I haven’t had candied almonds all day!” she exclaimed, laying a hand on Sandor’s arm in excitement. She found the stall where the delicious aroma was wafting, and returned a few minutes later with a cone of white paper that unfolded to reveal the candied nuts. Sansa picked one out and crunched into it with relish, making a small hum of pleasure.

“Here, have some. They’re my favorite!”

Sandor tried one, made an appreciative grunt. “I’m not one for sweets, but those aren’t bad.”

“I always loved carrying the cone. They stay so warm, and my hands seem like they are always cold!”

She reached out and touched the back of her hand to Sandor’s unblemished cheek. His grey eyes looked deep and murky, and Sansa realized they were almost the same color as the thin clouds.

“You aren’t kidding,” he chuckled. “Death’s got a warmer touch.”

He reached up to take her hand, held it between his two large ones, gently rubbing her fingers with his.

“Better?” he asked, voice slightly husky.

Sansa nodded, and Sandor let her hand go. Her palm felt slightly tingly, and Sansa wondered if it was just missing Sandor’s warmth. Sansa took another bite of almonds, trying to pretend her cheeks weren’t flushed. She made a sudden decision just as Sandor was noticing how late it was getting, and that they would soon be closing the park.

The impending closure wouldn’t affect the staff. The main tavern, the Smoking Log, would stay open for hours for the staff to drink together, unwind and swap stories, serving liquor at discounted prices to the performers and vendors. But it meant it was almost time for the official after-tourney party, and Sansa suddenly decided she wasn’t happy with what she was wearing.

“I think I’m going to head back to the dressing rooms,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence. “Freshen up a bit,” she added when Sandor looked dismayed.

“Oh. I thought maybe you’d gotten tired of me. Not that I would blame you,” he added.

Sansa smiled. “No, definitely not tired of you yet. I just didn’t really get a chance to wash up after the tourney. Think there’s still mud in my hair. I’m going to take a quick shower and change clothes. I’ll meet you back at the Smoking Log after dark?”

Sandor nodded, looking relieved. “Of course. Maybe I should go change too?” He looked suddenly worried.

“No, don’t! You smell kind of nice, actually. Musky.” Sansa suddenly stopped, feeling her cheeks flush wildly.

“Um, anyway. I’m going now before I say something more embarrassing. I’ll see you later.” She turned with a final wave and smile, and started walking away as fast as she could, mail shirt clanking.

She found Margaery on a wide thoroughfare leading away from the Smoking Log. She and Bronn had joined a group of boisterous, bawdy minstrels and were apparently enjoying themselves immensely. Sansa strode up and took her friend’s arm, leading her away from the crowd.

“I need your help,” Sansa whispered in her friend’s ear, steering her up the hill towards the staff building.

Behind them, Bronn protested. Sansa turned and waved. “I’m abducting her, but I’ll bring her back in time for the party. See you later!” she called.

“So, what happened to the strong silent one?” Margaery asked, taking her kidnapping in stride.

“I’m going to meet him at the party later. I want to get cleaned up and maybe put on a dress.”

Margaery’s eyes went wide. “Oh my, you really like him!”

Sansa laughed and rolled her eyes, though she didn’t try too hard to dissuade her friend.

“You do,” Margaery continued. “You want to look pretty for him! It’s sweet.”

It took almost half an hour to get back to the staff rooms, they kept getting stopped and congratulated, or asked to take a picture by enthusiastic fair guests trailing increasingly exhausted children. Finally, Sansa got back to the dressing rooms, took a quick shower (the water was icy cold, so speed was a necessity) and stood before a mirror with Margaery and a few of the queen’s maids, hair up in a towel drying, wearing a white shift and jumping from foot to foot.

“Hurry, I’m gonna freeze my tits off!”

“My, such language,” a sardonic voice lilted from the door. Arya was standing there, still in her mud-stained breeches and jerkin, leaning against the door, smirking.

“Sansa, you look like a wet rat.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

Margaery held up a deep blue dress against Sansa, and the three women debated about the color, if it brought out her eyes enough. Another suggested a deep plum dress, so dark it was almost black. Margaery rejected it.

“It’s too dark, not bright enough to make a statement. Sansa needs something light and airy.”

“Are you here for any particular purpose, Arya?” Sansa asked her sister over the gaggle.

Arya shrugged, one eyebrow arching fetchingly. “Just wanted to see what a stuffed goose looks like.”

Sansa glowered. “Out!” she bellowed, then changed her mind.

“Unless you came to get some pointers for how to dress up for Gendry,” she needled.

Arya’s look fell as the remark got the other girls’ attention. “Dressing up for Gendry, oh my!” Margaery exclaimed.

Arya shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Sansa, you really are a twat,” she said over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

Sansa finally stopped the bickering and picked the light blue gown. It did match her eyes, and Sansa agreed that the other dress was far too dark for her hair and complexion. The girls laced Sansa into the gown, which matched Margaery’s in style, lacing up the front and open to the floor and at the bust to show the shift underneath.

Then Sansa unfurled her hair and dried it as best she could. The breakers would blow if you tried to use an electric hair dryer, so she had to settle for letting it air dry. Luckily, it dried pretty quickly, and within fifteen minutes, she would have soft waves.

Margaery applied her makeup, after assuring the redhead that she was reasonably sober. Soon, Margaery stood back and admired her handiwork, and once Sansa caught a glimpse in the mirror, she had to agree. Her makeup was applied with a light, but professional hand, a thin layer of foundation, light blush, a sweep of highlighter over her cheeks and brow bone. A thin line of eyeliner winged up a few centimeters towards the end of her brows. A glittery gold cream was blended over her eyelids. Margaery applied the last touch, a pale pink lipstick with just a touch of shimmer to it.

Jeyne offered one of her flower crowns to Sansa, who accepted it gratefully, promising to return it and the dress the next day. With the circlet of blue flowers settled on her mostly dry curls, Margaery declared she was ready, giving Sansa a thin, white wrap against the cold.

“Though I’m sure Sandor would be happy to keep you warm,” Margaery said with a wink.

Sansa blushed as she sat down to pull on her boots. The other ladies in waiting left for the party. “He warmed my hands earlier. I think he probably has a lot of heat to spare.”

Margaery smiled, then pulled a face at Sansa’s mud-spattered boots. “Don’t you have anything else to wear?”

“No, I don’t. They’ll keep me warm. Besides, no one will see them.”

Margaery agreed reluctantly. But since Sansa had no other shoes to wear, there was nothing to be done. Margaery made last minute touches to her own dress and makeup, and Sansa thought the two made quite a pretty picture, both with their hair hanging long down their backs, Margaery’s light-brown and Sansa’s hair a dark copper, until they were completely dry, when they would regain their brilliant red. Margaery’s lovely green dress complimented Sansa’s blue gown. Margaery slipped her arm through Sansa’s.

“Well, shall we go drive these boys wild?” she asked, flashing Sansa a saucy smile.

“Yes, let’s,” Sansa replied, tucking a small fold of cash into the bosom of her dress.

They left the dressing room with a soft swish of skirts, flicking off the light as they left.


	7. Pleasure without speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor finally get that drink...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only my third completed work ever! Hope you like it!

Sansa hardly had time to be nervous. Margaery swept her down the paths towards the Smoking Log, in the deep blue twilight that was quickly deepening to night. Fairy lights had been strung up along the paths, twinkling electric lights that ran the whole length of the park. The Faire usually wasn’t open at night, except for one weekend towards the end of the season, when admittance after dark was adult only, and a masquerade ball was held in the paths. Young men and women dressed as nymphs and danced through the trees, bearing pitchers of wine that they sold by the cupful.

But after closing, the park was often left open for the staff to relax after a long day of standing and greeting and play-acting. Most everyone still wore their costumes, but pieces came off throughout the night, like the young woman who had pulled her arms inside her gown to untie her stays, letting them slump down to the ground. The young woman sighed with relief and picked up the stays, slinging them over her shoulder. Jackets and neck wraps often peeled off with the hours and the warmth of the bodies pressed into the tavern, sleeves were rolled up.

As Margaery and Sansa approached the tavern, she spotted Sandor and Bronn standing beneath a tree, speaking to each other in low tones, holding flagons of ale. Their voices grew more animated as the ladies approached, until Sansa could tell Sandor was talking about Jaime and their fight that day.

“At least the little gold cunt didn’t try to cheat me again today,” Sansa caught him saying, before Bronn noticed their approach and elbowed Sandor in the gut. Sandor glared at the smaller man, but turned to look when Bronn nodded his head in their direction.

Sansa thought all of the fuss and effort had been worth it when she saw Sandor’s expression. His grey eyes flicked over Margaery for a mere second, then proceeded to stare unashamedly at her, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

Sansa knew she looked good, she was not a woman who felt the need to engage in false modesty. Nor was she overly vain or proud of her looks, after all, other than a general skill at makeup and picking out clothes, there was nothing she herself had done to achieve her looks. She had been born pretty, it was a simple fact. All she had done since was wash and brush her hair and take care to apply sunscreen.

It shouldn’t matter to her, she thought rationally, that she looked pretty. But she did have to admit, the rush of endorphins at seeing this huge man, who in another era might have been a formidable warrior, struck speechless at the sight of her was worth all the primping and rougeing and “color palette” talk. She could feel her own blush start to rise.

Bronn leaned over to Sandor, who had never taken his eyes off Sansa. “Mate, you’re gonna start to slobber.”

Sandor shoved Bronn hard with his shoulder, eyes still on Sansa, though he had closed his mouth. Bronn went sprawling and Margaery had to steady him, laughing. “You already drunk again? I told you to drink water!”

“I drank a cup,” he protested.

“Well let’s get you some more, you’re no use to me in this state.” Margaery started to steer the slightly inebriated man towards the tavern.

“Have fun you two!” she called over her shoulder.

Sansa looked back at Sandor, who was still looking at her like a drowning man at dry land. He cleared his throat and frowned, which struck Sansa as his attempt to get his facial features back into some semblance of order.

“You look lovely. I didn’t mean to stare, but- hmm. Would you like a drink?”

“Let me. I’m supposed to be the one buying you a drink.”

“I don’t mind,” he said in a rush. “It’s so nice out here, and if we go inside, people will want to talk to you.” He paused.

“I must admit, I want to keep you all to myself right now.”

Sansa felt her stomach do a little flip in her belly. “That’s all right. I don’t mind being kept.”

Sandor turned to go, then turned back to look at her again. He raised one hand, and at first Sansa thought he was going to touch her cheek. But he just brushed his hand against one of the strands of her hair, hanging off her shoulder. He nudged it back into place, then gave her a small smile. Just the corner of his mouth hitched up, but to Sansa, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.

Sandor turned and stomped away to the tavern, and Sansa leaned back against the tree they had been standing under, her back against the trunk. She shut her eyes for just a moment, savoring the fluttery feeling in her stomach, the sound of the quiet forest.

Her eyes sprang open at the sound of footsteps approaching her. Surely Sandor wasn’t already returning? And groaned quietly at the sight of Petyr Baelish.

When Petyr saw her eyes open, he smiled and waved. He was dressed as a courtier, in thin, skin-tight leggings, pleated bloomer shorts with a tunic tucked into the waistband, covered by a short black velvet jacket, like something out of an Elizabethan play. He prided himself on his historical accuracy, and stuck his nose up at anyone whose costume was, in his mind, inaccurate or hand-made.

“Sansa, sweetling, you look lovely!” he cried, eyes roving over her body. As warm and happy as Sansa had felt a moment ago, she felt now a similar measure of dread and repulsion. Why did he have to look at her so greedily? And never her eyes, which was all Sandor looked at, or at least not for more than a moment, before they dropped to her breasts, her waist, her hips. She wanted to slap him and remind him where her face was.

“Petyr, how are you?”

“Inconsolable, dearest. I haven’t seen you all day.”

Always the ‘sweetling’ and ‘dearest’. She knew if Arya was here, she would have started mocking him while Sansa protested, but only until he left, then they would fall into fits of giggles and take turns mocking his whiny, nasally voice. He was a family friend, and for the sake of her mother, who she suspected also only put up with Petyr, she was outwardly polite to him. But he always enjoyed taking liberties, asking for hugs, trying to get her under the mistletoe at Sevenmas parties. Her mother, to her credit, always discouraged this, and would actively intervene if she saw her daughter becoming too uncomfortable.

“Well, you knew where I was this morning. You could have come and seen me.”

“Darling, you know how I detest those combat spectacles, and I especially do not want to see you with those sweating, mindless oafs.” He pulled a long face. “I still can’t believe you followed your sister into that barbaric sport.”

“And my father and brother, you seem to forget,” she reminded him sweetly. Baelish almost glowered, as he always did at the mention of her father. Sansa suspected Petyr had been one of her mother’s suitors. Which she enjoyed reminding him about, in the hopes that he would realize how inappropriate it was to be pursuing the daughter of a woman he had once pursued. But he always seemed to miss the lesson.

“Why can’t you go back to archery? That’s such a nice, ladylike occupation. And you were so good at it!”

Sansa gritted her teeth., then tried to relax her jaw. “I don’t see what ‘ladylike’ has to do with it. I enjoy sword-fighting. And I am good at it, as well. I came in third, afterall.”

Petyr seemed to realize he’d annoyed her, nodded. “Well, no doubt you are good at everything you put your hand to.”

Sansa made an involuntary face. The way he’d said that, and the way his eyes roved once more down her form, Sansa could tell he didn’t just mean archery and sword-fighting. She looked towards the tavern, trying to see if Sandor was on his way back yet. When she had her head turned, she suddenly felt his breath on her neck, at the same time she caught the heavy aroma of whiskey.

“Petyr, what the fuck-” she cried, jerking her head back towards him, which Petyr seemed to interpret as an opportunity to put his hands on her shoulder, mouth creeping closer and closer to her neck.

Sansa flailed for a moment, then when Petyr didn’t show any signs of letting her go, she kicked as hard between his legs as she could. She heard all the air go out of him, then he finally began to move away from her, although she noted that he was moving as much upward as away. That was when she noticed Sandor had appeared and had lifted Petyr up by the back of the back of his shirt, though Petyr had curled into a semi-circle that oddly reminded Sansa of a cooked prawn.

“I believe the lady has made it very clear that she does not appreciate your attention,” Sandor growled in Petyr’s face.

Petyr sputtered.

“Oh, my apologies! Where are my manners? Petyr, this is Sandor. You know, one of the sweating, mindless oafs at the barbaric display this morning?” Sansa was enjoying this far too much, especially Petyr’s cringe when Sandor smirked at him.

“Normally I would beat a man senseless for taking liberties with a woman without her consent, but Sansa is perfectly capable of neutering you herself. But I think you should leave. Before I turn into a mindless oaf again.”

Sansa smirked at this speech. Sandor threw Petyr down on the grass, who limped to standing and shuffled off slowly.

“Oh, and he thought I would be the one walking funny,” Sansa remarked loudly so Petyr could hear as Sandor retrieved the mugs of ale he had set down a few paces from the tree.

“Thank you, I haven’t had that kind of fun in years!” Sansa took a mug gratefully.

“You know that cock-popper?” Sandor asked, glaring at the receding figure of Petyr Baelish.

“Friend of my mother’s. Always thought he was a creep. Never knew he was an actual pervert.”

Sandor hesitated, winced slightly. “Your mom’s friends with that guy?”

“Well, she’s probably going to feel differently when I tell her what happened,” Sansa admitted. “I hope she will.”

She sipped her ale, taking a moment to glance over at Sandor. She giggled slightly.

“What, what’s funny?” Sandor asked, nervously looking at her over the rim of his mug.

“No, nothing. Just- my knight in shining armor!”

Sandor immediately blushed and looked down at his feet. “Shut up.”

She grinned at his discomfiture. “You were, you just swooped in and rescued me. My hero!” she cried in a tremulous voice, pressing the back of her free hand to her forehead.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, to pull her hand away from her forehead, laughing as he did. Sansa’s laughter cut off, and she couldn’t help noticing the way his hand dwarfed hers, his fingers and thumb overlapping around the soft skin under her wrist.

Sandor cleared his throat and released her hand. Sansa wanted to reassure him that he didn’t have to let go so quickly, that she enjoyed his touch, but there was a rustling behind her. Sansa turned to see if Petyr had returned.

“What are you two up to?” Arya’s voice came out of the dark.

“What? Nothing. None of your business.” Sansa replied automatically. “What do you want? Why are you skulking in the dark?”

Arya stepped into the light, her mouth twisted into a smirk. “It’s what I’m good at. Are you going to come buy me a drink, or what?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Fine, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Arya cast a glance over her shoulder, eyebrow arched, before she disappeared into the dark in between the rows of lights.

Sansa turned back to Sandor. “We should probably go in. I owe her a drink.”

Sandor made a move to push away from the tree they had been leaning against. Sansa reached out impulsively and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him back against the tree, mere inches from her.

“What?” he asked, his question cutting off at the realization of their proximity. His eyes roamed over her face and Sansa felt her breath hitch, sure that her heart was beating at a quick march.

In a moment, Sandor had closed the gap between them, his lips firm upon hers, one hand cupping her cheek. Sansa moaned low as he opened his mouth, and she opened hers in answer, lips molding to each other. Sansa threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into her, tilting her head up and to the side as Sandor pressed himself against her, thighs against her thighs, hips against hers, chest against her breasts.

After a minute, Sandor raised his head, gazing down at her a moment. Sansa wondered how he looked to her, eyes half-shut, lips open, breathless. He brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead.

“We should probably get going before your sister comes back.”

Sansa grinned, watched his mouth curve up at one corner. “Well, I do owe you a drink.”

Sandor shook his head. “Nope, won’t let you buy me one.”

Sansa frowned. “Why not?”

Sandor wrapped his arms around her waist, still smirking that half-smile that drove her crazy. “If I don’t let you buy me the drink, then I have an excuse to take you out tomorrow night.”

Sansa leaned her forehead against his. “You don’t need an excuse, Sandor. You just have to call me.”

She looked up at him as his breath hitched. “I like it when you say my name,” he explained, kissing her cheek, her forehead, each of her eyelids.

“Come on,” she murmured, opening her eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”

“You- can’t be serious,” Sandor stammered. “Your sister-”

“I owe you a drink. I have some at my flat,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll buy my sister a drink some other time, Robb can buy me one some other night. Rules are meant to be broken, right?”

Sandor grinned, and followed Sansa into the dark forest. What the hell? He had lost that day, but maybe finding Sansa was his prize.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's not my favorite ending for a fic ever, but I hope it will do, since this was just supposed to be a bit of fluff. Hope you liked it!


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